


a soft place to fall

by humanveil



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02, probably the softest femdom i’ve ever written and like. that is saying something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29346309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: There was an inexplicable softness to Din, something that begged to be matched. It had worried her, at first. It wasn’t in her nature—she could be sneaky, stealthy, scrupulous, yes, but tender?Gentle?She hadn’t thought she knew how, not in the way Din needed. But she’d proved herself wrong.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Fennec Shand, Din Djarin/Fennec Shand
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	a soft place to fall

**Author's Note:**

> turns out i cannot be stopped and _will_ shove my favourite characters together in any fandom at any time. title from aurora’s _runaway._ for the three people who will read this - i hope you enjoy it!

Din is hot beneath her, skin flushed and sweaty, breath heavy. Fennec has a hand placed over his heart, her knees planted on either side of his thighs as she watches, feels the rise and fall of his chest, listens to every breath escape, sweet and stuttered, a desperation barely restrained. 

“Easy,” she says, and revels in the way Din groans, the sound caught in his throat. “Easy.”

He’s still shy. Unused to so much direct attention, at least in this situation. Still, he tries to follow the order: He takes a steadying breath and arches ever-so-slightly, head turned into the mattress as he silently seeks her touch, eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at her, doesn’t have to face the full force of his own vulnerability.

Fennec allows him that. She knows he’s still learning, still struggling with where he stands now that he has no child, no clan, no Creed. Knows that he’s still unsure of where he fits in with all of this, with her and Boba, can tell he’s desperate for reassurance but unsure of how to ask for it.

Here, at least, she can make it easy for him.

“I’ve got you,” Fennec says, increasing the pressure of her hand, her fingers digging against the hard lines of Din’s chest. She rocks her hips down over his, only teasing, her cunt brushing over his leaking cock. The whine it elicits catches between Din’s teeth, has her lips twitching as if to smirk. He writhes on the bed, seeking more, seeking _anything,_ but Fennec only increases the pressure of her hand.

“Careful,” she warns, and watches Din’s movements stutter, stop. He’s always so receptive, so eager to be _good—_ Fennec slides her hand down, shifts to give an appreciative flick to his nipple, and rocks against him again. Her own arousal burns through her, hot and heady, the ache made worse by the way Din whimpers, brown eyes fluttering open as he looks at her, desperate.

She leans to kiss him, quiet him, and he meets her midway. The way he kisses is still clumsy _—_ hungry but inexperienced _—_ and it makes it all the more endearing. There’s a softness to it, to Din: a tenderness that’s hard to come by in their world. It makes Fennec’s chest ache with something deeper, something more than just plain desire.

She slides a hand into Din’s hair, slips her fingers through the mess of curls. “We’ll get there,” she promises, scraping her nails over his scalp as he mumbles something incoherent, his mouth dropping to press small, wet kisses down her neck.

He’d come to her in the dark, the hesitant tread of his step now a familiarity. He hadn’t asked, but there’d been no need to; Fennec could read his want, could see it in his face, in the way his eyes reflected the flickering light, brown and wide and sad, still, even then. Even now. The hesitancy hadn’t vanished, not when she’d put aside her work, not when she’d beckoned him forward, not even as she led him to the bedroom. It was new, the two of them without Boba. She can’t say she’d been entirely certain herself.

But it had fallen together. As she stripped him, hands moving over his body with soft, slow touches, her voice little more than a whisper as she told him that they were alone tonight, that Boba had business and wouldn’t be back til after sunrise, it had fallen together. She’d thought maybe it wouldn’t, that maybe he wouldn’t be interested in _just_ her, that maybe he needed Boba’s patient compassion more than he needed whatever she could give him, but he’d dropped just as quickly, tension easing as he succumbed to desire, his need written so clearly across his face without the beskar barrier that it was breathtaking.

It’s endlessly fascinating, the rawness to Din’s expressions. When he’d first come to them, his face had been covered with Tusken rags, the harsh sands of Tatooine an easy excuse. He hadn’t removed them, and it wasn’t until Din retired for the night that Fennec had dared mention the absence of his armour. _He’s struggling,_ was all Boba had to offer. _Give him time._

And so she had, her questions kept quiet as Din stayed, left, came back again. Even now, she still doesn’t have all the answers, but she has enough. She knows the rags stay on when he leaves, but that he trusts them enough to show his face. Knows what it’s like to see those big, brown eyes swell with tears, light up with love, harden with anger. Knows the way his face twitches before it crumbles, the way his jaw clenches as he tries to keep himself together. Knows the way his cheeks heat when he’s overwhelmed with desperation, the way his mouth opens, closes, the things he wants _—needs—_ caught between his teeth.

It’s what she’s looking at now. 

_“Please_ ,” Din says, low and hoarse, his hands flexing at her sides as he fights the urge to touch, to _take._ He doesn’t talk much _—_ has never talked much _—_ but Fennec recognises the Mando’a hissed between gasps and groans, is pleased when she understands some of it, the lessons she’d requested from Boba finally paying off.

She doesn’t shush his begs, only continues her teasing, continues to touch him in ways that drive him mad. He wants an excuse to fall apart and so she gives him one; she keeps her touches deliberate, the pressure enough to keep him near the edge but not enough to provide relief. It’s a familiar game, one she always enjoys, one she knows works. How could it not, when Din had deprived himself for so long? When his body without the armour was so sensitive, so _starved_?

It’s not until moisture gathers in the corners of Din’s eyes that Fennec finally takes pity. She straightens up, lifts her hips to align his cock with her entrance, and sinks down in a single, fluid motion. Beneath her, Din goes gooey with relief, colour high on his cheeks as he starts to squirm, hands reaching to settle on her waist, drift upward. She shifts to cover a hand with her own and keeps it there, at the underside of her breast, her fingers linking with Din’s as she rocks her hips in slow, shallow motions.

He wants more. Her own body aches for it, too, but she fights the urge. There is an inexplicable softness to Din, something that begged to be matched. It had worried her, at first. It wasn’t in her nature _—_ she could be sneaky, stealthy, scrupulous, yes, but tender? _Gentle_? She hadn’t thought she knew how, not in the way Din needed. But she’d proved herself wrong.

It was easier for Boba. Boba who, despite everything _—_ or maybe because of it _—_ could match Din in his softness. Watching them together had taught Fennec how to read Din, had helped her figure out what worked and what didn’t. And the longer Din stayed, the more Fennec learnt, the more she could piece together what he needed from her, from _them._ Certainty had been the first thing; stability. After that, a sense of belonging. His breed of Mandalorians were pack animals, Boba had told her once, as they watched Din gaze at the two suns of Tatooine. She couldn’t quite empathise _—_ had always been alone, and for the most part, had liked it _—_ but she could see the way it affected Din. The way it made him reach for them, half-mad at his own cravings but too far gone to keep fighting them. 

The three of them coming together had felt natural. Fennec hadn’t been surprised, not really. She’d known, maybe even before Boba had, that their business with the Mandalorian would not be so clean cut. She’d felt it as she stood on Tython, torn between watching Din as he waded through the ruins of the Razor Crest or watching Boba beside her, body turned as if he was incapable of looking at Din head-on but equally incapable of looking away. She’d understood _—_ Din’s heartbreak had been palpable, even under all that beskar, even through the settling smoke. Boba had never mentioned it _—_ and truthfully, Fennec had never asked _—_ but she knew enough about both of them to draw the similarities, to look at Din, standing lost in the remnants of his home, his child gone, and know what was plaguing Boba’s mind.

She’d thought then that their fates were sealed, that walking away wouldn’t be as easy as initially planned. What she’d failed to consider is just _how_ hard it might be.

Her name passes through Din’s mouth, the sound followed by a moan as he clutches her hand, meets the roll of her hips with ones of his own. His eyes are open, wide and needy, filled with want. It reminds her of the very first time, of when Boba had invited him into their bed and Din, desperate to let go, to _stop thinking,_ had taken all of five seconds to fall apart. _I didn’t think you’d be so pretty, Mando,_ Fennec had said, reaching out to loop a sweaty curl around her finger as Boba worked him open. She hadn’t expected the jerk response, the way Din had flinched and leaned toward her simultaneously, body confused, overwhelmed after so long without touch. _Din,_ he’d told them, the name choked out with a groan. _My name—call me—Please—_

“ _Good,_ ” Fennec says, now, the word escaping in a breath. Arousal tingles in her toes, all the way up her spine, white-hot and increasingly difficult to ignore. She picks up her pace, murmuring praise as she rides Din, her voice gentle; she tells him that he’s beautiful, that he makes her feel incredible, that she’s proud he’s being so _good_ for her. It makes him whimper, makes him reach up, mouth seeking hers, his fingertips digging into her thighs as he basks in her affection. 

He’s shaking lightly. Always does, when they do this, as if his body still isn’t used to it. Fennec can feel the tremors in his legs, knows it means he’s getting close, that soon they’ll reach the point where he tips over the edge and _finally_ lets go. She nips at his lips, grabs his hand and places it between their bodies, directs his fingers toward her clit. When he finds it, he rubs her carefully, ardently, eyes shifting to meet hers as if seeking approval.

She gives it with a groan, her hips stuttering as her cunt clenches around him, his name hissed between the words _good_ and _yes_ as her actions become unsteady. He likes making her feel good—likes making them _both_ feel good—and the praise sends him over the edge, his low groan matched by hers as she lifts up and sinks down, watches Din freeze, face contorting in pure pleasure as he comes with a cry, her own orgasm following not long after.

He trembles in the aftermath too, oversensitive but sated. Fennec runs her hands over his neck, shoulders, back, whispers to him as they both come down from their high. Din drifts for a long time, caught in the haze of pleasure, in the peace that comes with submission, and Fennec stays with him, his gentle nature bleeding over to her as she takes care of him. The mess is cleaned, the tears on Din’s cheeks kissed away, the quiet _thank you_ he tries to offer swallowed by her mouth. It’s so earnest that it could almost make her laugh; instead, it makes her chest tighten, makes her twitch with a protective instinct she doesn’t want to dwell on. 

“You’re welcome,” she says, because she understands that Din needs to hear it. That he _wants_ to hear it. The way he looks at her in response, his eyes filled with a unique affection, a gratitude so sincere she can’t look at him for long—it makes Fennec thankful she bothered.

He asks to stay with her, after, not wanting to return to the room Boba had given him upon his arrival. Fennec nods his permission and settles on the bed beside him, fighting the urge to sleep even as exhaustion tugs at her consciousness. She wants to watch Din, is fascinated with how he looks in slumber: unguarded and vulnerable, unbearably soft, _beautiful_. It makes affection slowly seep through her chest, her hand reaching for Din's hair once again as Tatooine’s suns begin to rise, their warmth filtering in through the windows and casting them both in a golden glow.

Asleep in the gentle morning light, Fennec can’t help but think that Din looks ethereal, looks like something someone, somewhere, would have brandished as a display of stature, of decadence; a wonder to be treasured. She pulls him closer, struck by a selfish desire to have him as near as possible, and even in sleep, Din follows her lead, melts into her hold.

That’s how Boba finds them: Din curled into Fennec’s side, Fennec with her chin to her chest, half-asleep with her arm slung over Din’s shoulders, her fingers drawing soft, absentminded patterns against his nape. When Boba moves to join them, Din barely stirs, but Fennec recognises the shift of his weight, the way the bed dips beside her. She looks at him, eyes barely open, and smiles.

A treasure, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me at [twit](https://twitter.com/dykedin) & [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/) 😚😚


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